Omnibus Theatre

Reviewed – 28th February 2019

★★★

“doesn’t shy away from tough politics but tries to fit too much in”

Lipstick: A Fairytale of Iran is part-theatre, part-cabaret show which hopes to balance heavy foreign affairs and human rights criticism against some, often more light-hearted, sexual politics. It makes the case that you cannot divorce art from politics, that the mere act of telling a story is in itself a political act.

It’s 2010 and narrator Orla, played by Siobhan O’Kelly, is struggling to come to terms with her recent six week, Government sponsored, trip to Tehran. Orla and best-friend and drag artist Mark, played by Nathan Kiley aka Topsie Redfern, are about to open their own drag night in Soho but far from being excited for their dream to finally come true, they’ve had an argument and need reconciliation. The story unfolds exploring Orla’s time in Iran, how it changed her, and how Mark coped behind in London without his munchkin.

Lipstick is unflinchingly critical of the Iranian state, referring to it’s indecency laws and the brutal retribution in kind or literal ‘eye for an eye’ law exemplified in the case of Ameneh Bahrami and Majid Movahedi. This is, however, in contrast to the people she meets in Tehran. The students in her classes, the receptionist at the hotel and, most touchingly, a carpet shop owner, are all complex characters portrayed with warmth and fondness.

Writer and director Sarah Chew draws clever parallels between Orla’s Northern Irish upbringing and the contemporary situation in Iran. One of Orla’s students notes that the British Embassy in Tehran is on Bobby Sands street, the only street with a British name in the city. There’s also a satisfying circularity when, early in the piece, Orla describes the paramilitary explosive of choice, Semtex, as smelling like marzipan. Later, she is comforted by a kindly offer of traditional Iranian rosewater sweets – made from marzipan.

Whilst all this is happening, Mark stays in touch from London on the phone and through music he’s preloaded onto an MP3 player for Orla’s trip. Mark’s character and journey don’t feel as deeply explored or neatly structured. This disconnect was then magnified by the use of pre-recorded voice, with Mark lip syncing often to his own voice. Whilst the tinny, distant sound of the pre-record was likely meant to evoke the 5,000 miles between Tehran and London, it instead limited the connection with his character. Although responsible for many of the biggest laughs and impressive vocal performances, it was a shame his arc wasn’t as critically explored as Orla’s, leaving him to fulfil the “Gay Best Friend” trope.

The stage featured a long catwalk with the audience sat either side, as if in the Soho club. Mark’s many costumes were effective in motion, although the props and tech experienced a few glitches which, although handled well, did not go unnoticed.

Lipstick doesn’t shy away from tough politics but tries to fit too much in, leaving the plot feeling lopsided, limping along behind. However, despite this, its ending is feel-good and will leave you smiling on your way out of the theatre.

Southwark Playhouse

Reviewed – 30th November 2018

★★★

It’s Christmas Eve, and Simon (Michael Salami) is less than thrilled to be called out of bed in the middle of the night. His friend, Gary (Douggie McMeekin), has caught an Elf (Dan Starkey) breaking into his warehouse. Or at least a man dressed like an elf. Elf claims he fell from Santa’s sleigh. Gullible Gary is inclined to believe him. Cynical Simon tells Gary to call the police. Elf begs to be let go, plying them with detailed information about Santa, including the Powdered Christmas Feeling (PCF) he gives to children (great high, no side effects).

Gary and Simon are still deliberating what to do when sex-worker Cherry (Unique Spencer) arrives, demanding the Power Rangers for her son Gary promised her in exchange for sex. Elf says he needs to get back to Santa’s sleigh, but when Cherry checks his arms, she finds track marks. Obviously a junkie. Elf protests, it’s just PFC! He’ll grant each of them one wish if they’ll just let him go…

This not-at-all-family-friendly Christmas tale is wickedly clever, and doesn’t fail to draw laughs. It’s also touching – surprisingly Christmas-spirited – as even the most jaded adults manage to rediscover the Christmas feeling.

Director Alex Sutton’s revival of Anthony Neilson’s play, which premiered in London in 1995, is as sweary and gritty (real cigarettes smoked on stage) as its “in-yer-face” author intended. Unfortunately though, the story has just got started when it’s dragged to a near-standstill by overly-lengthy expositional dialogue. Gary and Simon spend too long questioning Elf and not believing him. Their extended Q&A interrogates the rules of Santa’s operation to an unnecessary extent, and while Elf’s explanation is unique, it’s pure exposition. The performance feels stalled with Simon constantly threatening to call the police, and neither of them making a decision. When Cherry finally arrives on the scene, it’s like being yanked out of the mud. The pace falters again later with the characters’ circular debate over which wishes to choose. When a play has a 65-minute runtime, it’s not good for scenes to feel long.

McMeekin, Salami, and Spencer give high-energy, confident performances with skilled comedic timing. Starkey’s decision to play the elf straightforward – distressed and desperate – forgoes some of the potential comedy in the role. Designer Michael Leopold has made effective use of a sparse set, and delights the audience with some well-timed ‘Christmas magic.’

Considering Soho Theatre’s 2013 revival of The Night Before Christmas was a musical, there’s a question of whether this 2018 revival has anything to add to the original. The script provides an excellent premise, but it feels as though Sutton has missed an opportunity to address its flaws, and contribute a fresh perspective.

The Night Before Christmas is fun, silly, ‘alternative’ Christmas theatre, but this revival doesn’t lift the play above the original’s pitfalls.